


Consolation No. 3

by perfectlystill



Series: To All The People Who Loved Peter And MJ Before [4]
Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/F, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 07:16:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18889789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: “Aren’t you supposed to believe he was in love with her from their time on the campaign to the present day? Isn’t it messed up that he never stopped loving her but married somebody else?” Peter asks.MJ snorts. “Life isn’t that simple, Peter.”In which three people have three different relationships with MJ before Peter Parker.





	Consolation No. 3

**Author's Note:**

> I googled MJ's other friends/partners in the comics about ten separate times, but the internet only returned results of Harry, Flash, and Gwen. Apparently there was some dude named Brad; maybe there are other people, too. If there are, I don't know who they are, so I made people up, which I don't love doing in fic. But, I Tried Dot JPG.
> 
> Title from the piece by Franz Liszt.

i.

Saba lives across the street from Miss Anna in their quaint Buffalo suburb, and the summer before Saba starts high school, Miss Anna’s niece stays with her.

That summer, Saba reads too much Sarah Dessen, and the world is painted golden. The sun shines just enough to make everything glow, the oppressive humidity paints poignancy into every step onto her front porch, and Saba feels her heart unfurl like the petals of an evening primrose in the late afternoon. 

Her heart and mind are primed with stories of girls who fall in love with boys and themselves. Saba has never been interested in boys, even though she thinks she should be. Mia referred to Theo, with his curly blonde hair and snorting laugh, as The Beanbag for the last six months so they could talk about him during the ten minute period after lunch when the lunchroom supervisors led the eighth graders outside to stand on the blacktop by the tennis courts, pretending it was recess in the same way it was on the elementary school playground. But Saba’s open to falling in love; it feels possible. The idea is warm and bubbly like the pop of a Sprite can, soda fizzing over the ice cubes in her glass. 

Her dad is the one who tells her Miss Anna has a niece Saba’s age coming to visit for the summer, and it buzzes in Saba’s mind while she tears off a piece of naan. She ponders life-changing summer friendships, the side characters who teach the protagonist how to have fun, dancing around a shop on the pier and holding hands while running into the warm waves of the ocean. 

The first time Saba sees Michelle, she’s sitting against the old oak in Miss Anna’s front yard, tan legs spread out in front of her, barefoot. Saba forms a visor over her eyes and squints, but she can’t make out Michelle’s facial features, or what she’s reading, or if she seems friendly. 

Saba is running late, so she pops up her kickstand and bikes to Mia’s without introducing herself. 

 

 

Saba’s dad is neighborly. She doesn’t know why; maybe it’s just his gregarious nature, or the allure of living on a quiet street where every house has one of two different layouts. He invites Miss Anna and Michelle over for a barbecue, and Miss Anna comes with a giant bowl of potato salad propped against her hip. Michelle has a worn copy of some thin book hanging by her side, her smile contained to her mouth when she thanks Saba’s dad for inviting her.

He waves her off and makes the introduction: “Michelle, this is my daughter, Saba. I hear you’re starting your freshman year in September, too?”

“Chelle tested into one of those fancy science schools in the city,” Miss Anna says. “My sister claims they have a good humanities program. But I’m still going to make sure Chelle gets as much culture as she can up here. Just in case.”

Saba’s dad chuckles, and Michelle purses her mouth, hand tightening around the book by her side. 

Miss Anna and her dad head to the patio, sitting at the table with her mom, and Saba and Michelle follow suit. Michelle’s book, _The Catcher in the Rye_ , lays on the table. She fiddles with it, brushing her thumb along the pages, but inserts herself in the adults’ conversation about neighborhood ordinances and politics. 

Saba still feels too young to offer an opinion. She sits quietly, eyes darting back and forth. Sometimes she glances out into the yard where her younger sisters play some made-up game on the swingset, pumping their legs and flying so high Saba worries they’ll flip over, jumping off and running in a circle, gliding down the slide headfirst. Their voices echo softly, high and light. Saba feels too old to join them. 

Dinner is delicious, and Miss Anna’s potato salad is legendary. It always goes first at the neighborhood block party in August.

After, Saba and Michelle are shooed away. They sit on the grass, and the blades prickle against Saba’s skin. She lifts her knees and rubs at her shins, watching Noor and Iz chase the early fireflies around, the light beginning to dim even though the sun hasn’t truly begun tiptoeing toward the horizon. 

“I made an insectarium at summer camp when I was in third grade,” Michelle says. Her book is open in her lap as she watches Saba’s sisters run around. “I filled it with a bunch of lightning bugs, and they all died within two days.”

“That sucks.”

Michelle shrugs. “I cried and buried them in the yard with my babysitter.”

“My mom won’t let them keep any. She doesn’t like bugs.”

“Smart.”

“Yeah.”

Michelle’s hair is curly, almost like Saba’s own. She’s pretty, the kind of pretty that would make somebody at Saba’s school popular. Each word out of her mouth feels measured and deliberate, and the timbre of her voice goes fuzzy in Saba’s head, her stomach fluttering and lighting up like it’s filled with the fireflies floating around the backyard. 

“How’s the book?” Saba asks, plucking grass from the ground. 

Michelle frowns. “My aunt is making me read it for our book club.”

“Book club?”

“Just the two of us. In case Midtown actually has a shit English curriculum.”

Saba doesn’t swear. None of her friends do, either. Hearing the word curl out of the mouth of someone her age who is smart and pretty and cool causes Saba to sit up straighter and scratch her hands over her knees. “Ugh, sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.” Michelle looks at the book, smooths her hand down the center and cracks the binding a bit more. “I don’t like this one, but my aunt always has really interesting thoughts.”

“Maybe I’ll read it.”

One side of Michelle’s mouth turns up. “Maybe skip this one. But _A Separate Peace_ was good.”

 

 

Saba bikes to the library the next day, checks out the book, and speeds through it quicker than she’s ever read anything. 

She doesn’t like it, so when she spots Michelle laying out in Miss Anna’s front yard, Saba heads over and asks Michelle why she did.

“It explores morality, friendship and loss of innocence in ways that feel authentic.”

“It was kind of boring,” Saba says.

“Finny and Gene are kind of gay, too.”

Saba tries not to blush. “Okay.”

“Okay.” The corners of Michelle’s mouth almost smile, and she holds her hand over her eyes as she looks up. Her hair frizzes with the humidity, and her skin glows with the heat, and her smile feels like a breeze tickling against Saba’s own overheated skin.

“My friends and I are going to the movies tonight, if you want to come.”

“Aunt Anna and I are going out to dinner and then heading to Tifft.”

“Okay. Cool.” Saba bites her bottom lip and rocks on her feet. “Maybe next time.”

“Sounds fun,” Michelle mumbles, her voice low and syrupy.

Saba’s stomach swoops, and she smiles. “Cool.”

 

 

Saba’s stomach swooping transforms into clenching knots when she entertains the thought that Michelle doesn’t want to hang out with her or her friends, but was simply being polite.

Turns out she needn’t worry, because she learns Michelle has no interest in being polite for the sake of it when Michelle joins Saba and her friends at the amusement park. She wears a pair of too long beige shorts and a worn out T-shirt with a photo of Alice Coachman print-screened onto it. Saba has to ask who Alice Coachman is, and she feels embarrassed and uncultured for a moment, but Michelle’s eyes light up as she speaks. 

She speaks about the collection of shirts she’s putting together, and all the women history class forgets about. Saba knows herself well enough to know she won’t get home tonight, stuffed with funnel cake and exhausted in the way standing around in the midday sun makes her, and search out lists of the Top 10 Historical Women who Kicked Butt, but she thinks that’s okay. She’d rather watch Michelle tug at a string hanging off her shirt and become passionately righteous about how Watson and Crick used Rosalind Franklin’s work to discover the double-helix structure of DNA without crediting her. 

“She should have won a Nobel prize, too,” Michelle says.

“Totally,” Saba agrees. “Boys still don’t listen to us half the time.”

“They’re stupid.”

“The worst,” Saba groans. 

Mia, Davina and Alexa don’t like Michelle. Alexa whispers about her shorts following the school dress code of going past her fingertips, and Mia thinks it’s weird that Michelle never watched _The Vampire Diaries_ but posits that lots of girls only pretend to hate _Twilight_ because of internalized misogyny. Mia gets defensive about how she’s only friends with girls, and Michelle rolls her eyes. Davina likes her best, but Davina likes everyone. 

Saba likes Michelle, though. Their knees bump sometimes when they sit together on rides, they laugh when a boy who cut in line for an arcade game gets pooped on by a bird, and after Alexa’s mom drops them off in Saba’s driveway, the night sky littered with stars and half a moon, mosquitoes nipping for their cotton candy blood, Michelle tells her she had a good time. Saba’s mouth stretches into a grin.

Her stomach does that swooping thing, and it feels connected to her heart. 

 

 

Michelle and Saba spend a few days at the local pool. Michelle sits on the ledge, dips her feet in the water but never swims. They purchase overpriced Snoopy ice cream pops from the snack shack, licking them slowly to cherish the taste until the ice cream begins dripping sticky trails down their knuckles. Michelle lays in her lounger and reads. Saba brings a book every day, spends 30 minutes trying to focus, and gives up to listen to the Top 40 station on Spotify that isn’t cool to like. 

It’s nice. 

Saba learns Michelle’s hair doesn’t frizz as much as hers, but freckles darken along her cheekbones and on her nose. Her legs are long, long, long, and Saba makes a point to not look at them. 

They walk around the neighborhood, shoulders bumping. Saba feels it like goosebumps springing up underneath her skin, cheeks flushing with something other than the mounting late-morning sun. They chalk up the sidewalk with Noor and Iz, and Michelle’s swirling stars remind Saba of Van Gogh. 

When she tells Michelle, Michelle shrugs, but her eyes are warm and swirling, too. “Thanks.”

It’s the end of July when they sit on the easement behind Saba’s house, behind the fence. It backs up to a busier road, and Michelle tallies the cars driving by in the corner of her sketchbook. 

“Mia’s just … like that, I guess?” Saba says. “Boy crazy.”

Michelle hums.

“Do you have any friends like that?”

“Don’t really have friends.”

Saba can feel her eyes widen like saucers. “What?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

Saba fiddles with the back of her earring and watches Michelle look at a car speeding by before she adds a tally mark. “Why not?”

“Why isn’t it a big deal, or why don’t I have friends?” Michelle asks. 

“The second one.”

“I guess I’m just not interested in pretending to be someone else for the sake of having a group to sit with at lunch.”

“That makes sense.” Saba nods, but it doesn’t make sense. Not to her. 

Rocks roll around her stomach when she thinks of sitting all alone at a table in the cafeteria, and her palms itch when she imagines having nobody to turn to when picking groups for projects. She wants to fit in so much more than she wants to be herself. She wants to be part of something, disappear into it and become one with it. Being different is scarier than being the same. Difference feels like loneliness. 

“I don’t think I could do it,” she adds. “You’re a lot braver than I am.”

Michelle turns her head, tucking the strand of hair that fell out of her ponytail behind her ear. “It’s not all that brave.”

“Yes, it is,” Saba insists. “You’re the coolest person I know.”

Michelle smiles, soft and small. Saba swallows, and when she makes eye contact, she realizes she was looking at Michelle’s mouth.

Michelle leans forward and kisses her, a soft pressure that causes fluttering in Saba’s stomach, tingles in her fingertips, warmth in her cheeks. It’s nice, and she likes it.

She likes it a lot. 

 

 

The first two weeks of August are the last two weeks before Michelle goes back to the city.

They spend it much the same way they spent the rest of the summer: swinging on the set in Saba’s backyard, pumping their legs as fast as they can so the momentum creates a breeze, lying on the grass and staring at the wispy white clouds without pretending they see anything special in the shape of them, walking to the local Dairy Queen for ice cream. 

Except now, when Saba’s calves hurt and her swing slows to a stop, Michelle lets her reach across the gap between them and hold her hand. They press their shoulders and arms together on the grass even if it’s too warm for it. Saba can taste the Dilly bar on Michelle’s mouth when they kiss. 

Saba thinks about her all the time. When she’s having a sleepover with Mia, Davina and Alexa, when she’s watching _Mulan_ with her sisters, when she’s drying dishes for her mom, and when she reads a new Sarah Dessen book, wondering if she’s in love just like the protagonist. 

Michelle hugs Saba before her Aunt drives her back to the city.

Saba sits on her bed, stares at the mirror attached to her dresser, feeling exhausted and empty. A sunburn tints the top of her forehead, and her hair is twice as big as her head, and she wants to cry but she’s afraid she won’t ever stop. Barely 20 minutes have gone by, and she wonders if Michelle was real.

 

 

They text and talk sometimes. Saba tells her about getting lost in the high school on her first day, the new boy, Richard, that Mia is obsessed with, and how _The Catcher in the Rye_ is on her English syllabus. Michelle reads _This Lullaby_ , explains her biology labs, and complains about the MTA. 

Then, one Friday night, when they’re on the phone, Michelle says, “I saw a loser get their ass kicked today.”

“There was a fight?” Saba rushes, pressing her phone closer to her ear. Seeing a fight break out feels very dramatic, and Saba’s heart kicks in anticipation. The most exciting moment she had at school all week was finding out there were Bosco sticks in the cafeteria on Thursday. 

“This kid, Flash, was picking on this other kid, Bert--”

“Like Bert and Ernie?” Saba asks.

Michelle huffs out a breath that Saba hopes is a laugh. “You could be one of Flash’s minions,” she says. “Anyway, this loser steps in to defend Bert. But it pissed Flash off, so he started picking on Peter.”

“Peter’s the loser?” Saba clarifies.

“Yeah. The nerd. And you know what Bert does?”

“No.”

“Laughs at Flash’s lame jokes.”

Saba frowns. “Oh.”

“Turns out Bert is really good at pissing people off. Because he did something to make a senior angry after school. Peter sees, steps in, and gets his ass kicked.”

“Why’d he stand up for Bert again?”

Michelle is quiet for five heartbeats. “I think he’s just a stupidly good person,” she decides, voice slow and low. 

Saba doesn’t think much about it until she calls Michelle a week and a half later, and Michelle mentions that Peter got a perfect score on their biology test.

Her lungs deflate, and she swallows around the lump in her closed-up throat. She blinks, inhales and hopes it doesn’t sound as loud as it is in her head. Saba can feel the fissures cracking along her heart, the cold air seeping through her veins and arteries, her chest tight and hollow. “I have to go. I’m-- I’m watching Iz and Noor, and I think I just heard something crash,” she says. 

Michelle laughs. “Tell them I say, ‘Hi.’”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.” Michelle ends the call first. 

Saba doesn’t know what she expected. Michelle’s over 300 miles away, and she feels further and further every day. She has the bustling life of the city, the independence public transportation affords her, and the opportunity to experience things Saba’s too afraid to even think about. Michelle’s attending a school for people as smart as she is, and Saba has hated every single book she’s read for English. She doesn’t like dirt or bugs or science.

Even if she tried, Saba thinks her voice wouldn’t allow her to stick up for someone getting bullied. The fear would wrap itself around her throat and squeeze like a viper. 

Saba closes her eyes and presses the heels of her hands against them to stave off her tears, but they come in loud, hiccuping sobs, anyway. She feels them vibrating in her heart and wipes uselessly at her cheeks. It leaves her with a headache to go with her heartache. 

 

 

The texts and phone calls taper off by the end of winter, the cold and snow freezing away the last vestiges of summer that carried Saba into autumn. She forgets the timbre of Michelle’s voice, the curve of her smile when she’s amused and how that was different from when she was purely and simply happy, the feeling of their mouths delicately brushing together like a special secret.

By the time she sees Peter comment on Michelle’s Facebook, it doesn’t hurt. She doesn’t feel jealousy seize up in her chest. The first time Michelle posts a picture with him, Saba realizes she was never in love with Michelle. She was infatuated with her, and she liked her a lot. Michelle opened Saba up to who she is, and Michelle accepted her, and she changed her. 

It blooms like a warm front at the beginning of spring, thawing the ground and urging the trees to awaken from their slumber. 

A summer romance to romanticize.

 

 

ii. 

Darryl meets Michelle at a Black Lives Matter protest in Times Square. 

She has a large sign and loud voice. He watches her arm, straight and steady, holding her sign above her head. He watches her arm bend, but her voice never quiets. 

“Do you want me to hold that?” he asks. She doesn’t hear him, so he leans closer and repeats himself. 

She squints. “I’m fine.”

“Your arm is tired.”

“No.” Her arm goes up again, high above her head, and Darryl smiles. 

Two minutes later, she shoves the sign at him, saying, “You can hold this because you didn’t bring one.”

 

 

She compliments his T-shirt, and they grab coffee when the protest is over. 

“School?” he asks. 

“Senior year at Midtown Tech.”

Darryl nods. “Howard in the fall.”

“That’s awesome.” Her eyes light up, golden. “My mom went there for undergrad.”

“Did she like it?” Every person he’s spoken to claims they love or loved it. 

“She met her best friends there.” Michelle sips her drink. “And it got her into yale for an MBA. Yale sounds more prestiges, so she talks about that more.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Michelle’s mouth twitches up. “I know. What’s your major going to be?”

“Elementary education.”

“I was expecting something like political science or African studies,” she says, leaning forward. 

“Nah. I love kids, and I know how important education is. Teachers help shape the next generation, you know? They make a difference.”

“If they’re good.”

“If they’re bad, too.” Darryl remembers the algebra teacher who refused to explain concepts in any way but the way she deemed correct. In elementary school, he loved the rush of trying to speed through the timed multiplication problems in under a minute, but after Miss Schmitt, he never liked math.

Michelle hums. “That’s true. Hopefully you don’t suck at it.”

Darryl laughs. “I hope not. Do you know where you’re applying yet?”

“The ivys.”

“Because of your mom?” Darryl frowns, eyes drifting over her face. She isn’t very expressive, and he has to really pay attention to gather something other than aloof, monotone from her. But he finds it’s all there, underneath the surface. 

Michelle shrugs. “I did a summer program at Harvard last year and really liked it. It sucks, but my parents aren’t wrong. I will get more opportunities just because my resume says Harvard instead of Michigan.”

“People who go to Michigan still get jobs.”

“Really?” she asks, sarcastic, eyes comically wide. 

Darryl shakes his head. “Whatever. Go to a school just for bragging rights.”

“Planning on it.” 

She smirks. Darryl likes it.

 

 

They exchange numbers. He asks her out, and she says yes. 

She listens when he tells her about his older brother and younger sister. He points out the scar on his forehead from the time Matt accidentally hit him with a baseball bat, and he tells her about the time World War 3 broke out because Simone refused to go to church on Easter Sunday. Darryl likes knowing Michelle pays attention, but that he has to earn a reaction from her. It makes her laugh sweeter and her smile more gratifying. 

Michelle tells him to call her MJ. She explains the various perks and pitfalls of being an only child. Darryl likes the idea of coming home to a quiet house, an open bathroom, and knowing the pizza pringles you specifically asked for won’t be eaten before you have a chance to have one.

“Did you ever wish you had someone to play with, though?” he asks.

“No. Maybe if I knew what it was like to have a sibling, I would have, but it was just normal.”

Darryl nods. “That makes sense.”

He kisses her on a street corner, lamp casting a warm orange glow around them. She tastes like the kimchi she ate at the restaurant, and her skin is soft underneath his palms. He has to bend down just enough to get to her, and she stretches up. 

They break apart when some asshole across the street whistles. MJ flips them off, and Darryl rubs at his forehead and ducks his head, embarrassed. 

 

 

“You want him to end up with April, though,” Ned says. He speaks quickly, words a rush. “The movie makes you fall in love with her. You want Will to love her, too. You want her to be The One.”

“Aren’t you supposed to believe he was in love with her from their time on the campaign to the present day? Isn’t it messed up that he never stopped loving her but married somebody else?” Peter asks.

MJ snorts. “Life isn’t that simple, Peter.”

“But it should be.”

“What was he supposed to do? Wait around hoping April and Kevin break up? That’s sad and potentially super weird and presumptuous.”

Peter shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?” Michelle asks, eyes boring into Peter. 

“I just meant if you marry somebody else and have a kid with them, you shouldn’t be carrying a torch for somebody else.”

“Just because he never stopped loving April doesn’t mean that he never loved Emily--”

“Yeah, when they were in college--”

“No, when he meets her again--”

“MJ, come on.”

“You’re the one expecting some uncomplicated fairytale. I like that this movie is more realistic than that. You’re right that the ending doesn’t feel earned, but--

“You get a happy ending!” Ned interrupts, throwing his hands in the air. 

“I don’t want my rom-coms to be realistic,” Peter grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Then why don’t you like the ending?” Michelle asks, rolling her eyes. 

“Because I want to believe the happy ending. That’s the whole _point_.”

“This is stupid,” Ned says. 

“Very,” Michelle agrees.

“Like the movie,” Peter adds. 

MJ turns toward Darryl. “What did you think?”

“Um.” He looks between the three of them. He knows he’s supposed to agree with Michelle, but he doesn’t have a strong opinion either way. He thought the movie was fine, cute and not worth a ten minute argument. “It’s kind of weird that he told his daughter about his relationships with two women who aren’t even her mom.”

“We weren’t arguing about that,” MJ says.

“But it _is_ another mark in the bad movie column,” Peter says.

“I hate you.”

Peter smirks, eyes bright as he looks at Michelle. “If you say so.”

 

 

Darryl and MJ sit on the bus to her house, and he watches her look out the window. The slope of her nose is the same, her curls still escape from behind her ear, but she feels like a new person. 

She’s different around Peter and Ned.

“I’ve never seen you so passionate about anything before,” he says. 

“What?” She looks at him, eyebrows just beginning to wrinkle in. 

“ _Definitely, Maybe_.”

She frowns. “We met at a protest.”

“I know.”

“If you think I care about a stupid movie more than racism, we’re breaking up a month early.”

He laughs, reaching out to grab her hand. “I don’t. I’ve just never seen you like that before.”

He doesn’t know how to explain it. Every idea that passes through his head feels wrong: more open, more sincere, lighter. She told him about her first kiss with a wistful fondness that felt vulnerable and important. He knows how much she cares about the planet and the people on it despite claiming to hate most individuals she meets. He knows how she laughs when he trips on the sidewalk versus how she laughs when she thinks he made a smart, insightful joke. 

Darryl knows MJ, but he doesn’t know the MJ that Ned and Peter do. 

She looks at him, halfway between concerned and offended. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Neither do I,” he admits. 

“Okay?”

“It was fun, though,” He bumps her shoulder, trying to lighten the mood. 

“Yeah,” she says. She forces a small smile before looking back out the window. She squeezes his hand. 

 

 

MJ tugs on his belt. 

“Wait,” he says, stilling her hands. They’re alone in her house, making out on her sofa while a documentary about climate change plays in the background. It’s not sexy, but MJ’s seen it before and wasn’t paying attention. Darryl knew that the minute her hand began crawling up his thigh. 

“What?” she huffs, cheeks flushing. 

“Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t be trying to get your pants off if I wasn’t sure.” She’s lying underneath him, her eyes are steady and determined, and her mouth is wet. 

He likes her so much. He moves his hand from over hers, holds her face and leans down to kiss her, soft and tender. “Okay,” he whispers.

They move to her bedroom because a bed is better, and her stashed box of condoms is in her nightstand. He tries to be slow and gentle. He watches her bite her lip, exhale through her nose, and nod when she wants him to move. She doesn’t pretend to come, and he kisses her forehead when he’s finished, apologizing. 

“It’s fine,” she says, running her finger along Darryl’s eyebrow. “It was fine.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

MJ laughs, low and soft. “You were nice. It was about what I expected.”

“I wish it was better than that,” Darryl says. 

She shrugs as much as she can while lying down. “I don’t mind.”

“But I do.”

“That’s your ego.” MJ smiles, so he kisses her. 

He might love her. 

 

 

Darryl and his sister run into Peter and MJ while picking up dinner. They’re at the Korean restaurant Darryl took MJ to on their first date. It’s a bit out of the way, but his parents refuse to order from anywhere else. 

He leans against the counter, waiting for their order to be finished, and Simone elbows him in the side. “Jesus, what?”

“Your girlfriend’s on a date,” she says. 

“What?” Darryl looks up. Simone points to Michelle and Peter, sitting at a table in the middle of the restaurant. “That’s just Peter.”

Simone marches over, and Darryl sighs, following. “Hey, Michelle.”

MJ looks up, her face transforming the way it does whenever she switches from Peter and Ned to anyone else. “Hi.” She smiles and nods. She glances at Darryl. “Hey. What’re you guys doing?”

“We can probably pull up a couple of chairs if you want to join us,” Peter offers. There’s one bite of food left on his plate. MJ appears to have eaten half of hers, which Darryl knows means she’s finished, too. 

“It’s okay, we’re just picking up an order.” Darryl steps around Simone to rest his hand against the back of MJ’s chair.

“What are _you guys_ doing?” Simone asks, snippy and high.

“I was quizzing Peter for decathlon because his brain turns to mush over the summer,” MJ answers. 

“Hey, I knew the Gettysburg Address lasted two minutes.”

“Yeah, and when and where was Jasper Johns born?”

“That’s not fair.” Peter frowns. “I don’t even know who that is.”

“1930. Augusta, Georgia. He’s an artist.”

“Art isn’t one of my subjects.”

MJ smirks. “I thought econ would be more of a challenge for you, nerd. But since it isn’t, I might as well use your brain to help me out.”

“You don’t need my help,” he says.

“No, I don’t. But you do need to be knocked down a peg.” She sits up straight, folds her hands over the table and stares at Peter, smirking without actually smirking.

“I thought that was the point of having me back up Flash with history?”

“Two pegs.” MJ raises her eyebrows, quick, up-and-down and up-and-down. 

Peter shakes his head, and his smile stretches.

“Pick-up for Moore!” The teenager working the counter calls.

“Thanks!” Darryl replies, lifting a hand. “We still on for Saturday?” 

“Yeah.” MJ nods, mouth a flat line. 

Darryl leans down and kisses her before returning to the counter, grabbing both bags of food, and thanking the girl working the register. 

Simone doesn’t even wait until the restaurant's door closes to loudly proclaim, “That dude is in love with your girlfriend.”

“Peter? Nah.”

“ _Yeah_.”

“Simone.” He glares at her, holding out one of the bags. “They’re just friends.”

She takes it, hums, and mutters something about white boys that Darryl doesn’t hear.

He doesn’t ask. 

 

 

MJ bites at the corner of her mouth, lower back pressed against her headboard. She leans over her sketchbook and looks up at Darryl, eyes focused and clear. 

Darryl yawns.

“Don’t move,” she orders.

“I’m not.”

“You just did,” she says, head down, her pencil shading in broad, precise strokes. 

Darry’s mouth twitches. He stops the smile. “I’ll work on it.”

“Good.”

There’s a pile of books on her nightstand, two mugs, and a honey coconut candle burning strong. A hoodie and jean jacket previously on the desk chair have been thrown on top of the notecards and markers splayed all over her desk. Two pairs of sandals litter the floor, and classical music pours out of her phone, snuggled underneath her knee.

Darryl likes this. 

He likes watching Michelle’s mouth pinch and smooth back out, the wrinkle between her eyebrows, and the flutter of her eyelashes when she scans the page before glancing back up at him. He studies the arch of her knuckle where she holds the pencil steady, the pop of bone on her thin wrist. Darryl’s never been able to look at her like this before without her rolling her eyes and telling him to stop being so creepy. 

“It’s weird that you’re the one drawing me, but I’m the one looking at you,” he says.

“I’m looking,” she answers, eyes glued to the page, pencil moving in quicker, shorter brushes now. 

He laughs. 

“Stop that.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

MJ huffs, exasperated. 

The piano filling the room intensifies, louder and smoother, notes ringing and blending together after they’ve been played. The notes form a round, curling through the room and crescendoing when Michelle makes eye contact. Wisps of hair brush against her forehead. A smile crinkles around her eyes, but her mouth remains firm. 

“I love you,” Darryl whispers. 

Her mouth loosens, but not into the grin he saw coming. “You leave for college in two weeks.”

“Yeah.” He exhales, the breath shallow and his chest too small. 

“As long as you know that,” Michelle says. 

“I do.” He knows she said this was a summer thing, and he knows she hadn’t appreciated his _Grease_ joke. 

“Okay.” She nods, refocusing on her sketchpad. “No one has ever--”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, shifting forward, mouth twisted as she flips her pencil to erase something. She wipes away the flecks of rubber, toes pressing against her sheets. MJ glances up at him. “Almost done,” she assures.

Her phone vibrates a second later, cutting off a sad, whiny violin. Michelle grabs it, eyes brightening. She texts something, her sketchpad slipping forward on her lap. The phone vibrates again, this time in her palm, and she picks up. “Hey, loser.”

“Who?” Darryl asks. 

“You didn’t,” she says, monotone. “Where was Ned?”

“Peter?”

MJ nods. She uses her feet to scooch herself toward the end of the bed, swinging her legs over the side. “Were you not born with common sense? … Wait, one second,” she says into the phone. “I’ll be right back.”

Darryl hears the faint sound of her laugh as she closes her bedroom door behind her, sketchbook left on her rumpled sheets. 

Darryl sits still. 

 

 

MJ’s hand is in his as they walk up the steps to the library. 

“She keeps asking me if I need a lamp or a trash bin, but she refuses to buy a mini fridge.”

“You don’t need a mini fridge, but try doing your homework without a lightsource.” 

Darryl pulls open one of the doors, allowing MJ to walk in first. “I won’t be able to focus if I’m starving.”

“There’s a cafeteria for that, and plenty of snacks that don’t require refrigeration. Go find that DVD for your mom while I see if they have any Agatha Christie I haven’t read.” 

Finding the DVD is simple enough, and Darryl checks it out before wandering around the library looking for Michelle. She isn’t where he expected her to be, but the library is vast, and he’s learned she never dismisses any genre entirely. 

He hears her before he sees her. “Take this one. And, if you can critically compare and contrast it to the film, take this.”

“You’re overestimating how much I liked that movie,” Peter says. 

Darryl turns down the next row of books and finds MJ squinting at the shelf. Peter has three books in his hands, and instead of reading the spines, he’s watching Michelle.

“I’ll try these, but I’d rather see space than read about it,” Peter says. 

“What about nonfiction?” MJ asks. 

“Yeah!” Peter bounces on his heels. “Yeah, that sounds better.”

“Take your Arthur C. Clarke and come with me.” She wraps a hand around Peter’s wrist and turns toward Darryl. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hey.”

She drops Peter’s wrist and points behind her with her thumb. “I ran into this nerd. He asked for some recs.”

“I did not.”

“He needs them,” she clarifies. “Did you find the DVD?”

“Yeah.” Darryl holds it up. 

“Cool. Come on, Parker.”

Peter shrugs as MJ marches forward, following her to the nonfiction section of the library. 

MJ hands him three more books, hitting him in the bicep with another when he comments about the previous book being over 400 pages. “You’re the smartest person I know--” Peter opens his mouth, and she narrows her eyes, “Don’t. I’m just saying you can easily understand that theoretical bullshit if you actually sit down and read it.”

MJ leans against the table while Peter checks out his pile, adjusting her backpack strap on her shoulder. “Are you doing anything Sunday?”

“I think May, Ned and I are getting brunch.” MJ tilts her weight to the outer edges of her feet. “You should come. May will kill me if she thinks I didn’t invite you.”

“Okay.” MJ’s feet hit the floor. “Sure. For May.”

“For May.” 

Peter smiles, soft and fond. MJ smirks, leaning over to press _No Receipt_. She holds out her hand. 

“My phone’s at the table,” Peter says. 

MJ pulls her backpack around her body, awkwardly fumbling around until she finds a pen. She grabs Peter’s arm and scribbles the due date on his wrist in blue ink. 

“That hurts,” Peter says, a laugh underlying the words. It probably tickles. 

“Liar.” Michelle swipes her thumb over the numbers. 

Peter’s smile fades, but there’s something about the way he looks at MJ that snaps at the base of Darryl’s skull. His sister’s words about Peter being in love with her rattle in his brain, and a hot, angry, possessive streak rockets up his spine. “We should go,” he says.

MJ looks at him, straight mouth and narrowed eyes. “Yeah, we should.” She shoves her pen haphazardly into the mesh pocket meant for a water bottle. “Later, dweeb.”

“Bye, MJ. Darryl,” Peter says, lifting his hand in a small wave. 

Darryl wraps his arm around Michelle’s shoulders, pulling her into his side. He feels her tense, but she doesn’t shove him away until they’re on the library steps. 

“Dude, what is your problem?” she asks.

“You have to stop giving Peter hope,” he says, measured.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Darryl doesn’t know what he means, either. Simone’s grumbling echoes in his head; she told him it’d be easy for someone to cheat on him, with how oblivious he is. He thinks about Peter ducking his head and looking at MJ. He hates it. He hates the way it makes him feel, because Peter is nice, even if he has some questionable _Star Wars_ opinions. Peter and Ned are MJ’s best friends. None of this is fair. 

“It’ll be better if you don’t let him think he has a chance with you,” Darryl says. 

MJ’s eyes widen. “You’re insane.”

She turns, taking the stairs toward the sidewalk two at a time.

“No, I’m not. He likes you, MJ.”

“Peter has a girlfriend.”

“And he’d be the first person to ever be attracted to someone besides their girlfriend?” Darryl asks.

MJ hops down onto the sidewalk and does an aboutface, looking at him, standing two steps above her. She shakes her head, arms akimbo. “That’s-- that’s ridiculous.” She glances at a pair of mothers with strollers passing behind her. “He doesn’t like girls like me.”

Her voice is firm and hard, her face impassive, but she reaches behind her head to tighten her ponytail, and the movement of her hands is flinching and unsteady. It feels like a punch to the gut. 

“You like him,” Darryl says.

MJ folds her arms across her chest. “I do not.”

“You do.”

“He doesn’t like me,” she says, scuffing her shoe against concrete. “And we were always going to break up when you went to Howard.”

He blinks. “Right.”

“Long distance is stupid. I wasn’t going to hold you back.”

“Okay, MJ.”

“You should get your mom her DVD,” she says. When she looks at him, there’s distance and sadness behind her eyes. 

Darryl steps down and nods, resigned. 

Michelle places her hand on his shoulder, leans up and ghosts her mouth against his cheek. 

 

 

He doesn’t hear from Michelle until he’s loading up the rented minivan with his parents the morning he leaves for college.

She stands by the passenger door, hands shoved in the back pockets of her shorts. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He strides past her to place the taped up box into the trunk. When he comes back around the car, MJ worries her bottom lip. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to say goodbye.” 

Darryl inhales. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“I’m sorry. For the library.”

“Me too.”

She looks the same way she did last week: frizzy hair, smattering of freckles, long legs and slightly bent posture. Michelle’s beautiful, and Darryl still loves her. 

“Have the best time,” she says. She tries to smile, but it looks more like a grimace. 

“I will. Remember senior year is supposed to be fun.”

“Sure, sure.” He steps forward, and she does, too, standing on her tiptoes to hug him. “You were a really good boyfriend.”

“You were a really good girlfriend.”

MJ moves back and swipes at some baby hairs on her forehead. “That’s better than I was expecting.”

“You were actually an awesome girlfriend, but the library incident lowered your overall score.”

Her mouth twitches; a real smile. “Percent?”

“Like, 78.”

She rolls her eyes. 

“Darryl!” Simone shouts from the door. “Mom needs your help with a box.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Simone looks at Michelle, but she doesn’t say anything. The screen door rattles when it closes behind her. 

“I should go,” he says. 

“Yeah. Me too.” She lifts her hand, a small wave. Darryl wonders if she picked up the gesture from Peter. “I think you’re going to be a really good teacher.”

“Thanks.” He smiles. “Bye, MJ.”

“Bye.” She tilts her head down and walks away. 

 

 

iii. 

Holly sneaks out of the hotel room, careful with the tape Mrs. Favia stuck to the door to ensure none of their decathlon team breaks the 10 PM curfew. But Holly really wants some chips from the vending machine down the hall, and she doesn’t care if it’s 10:43.

She turns the corner, discovering -- _score!_ \-- there are cheetos in the vending machine. 

Feeding her dollar bills into the machine and pressing F4, the machine whirs to life. Holly looks down, seeing her cheetos -- ugh, catch toward the bottom. She smacks the glass, but it’s sturdy and nothing happens. She kicks, but she’s only wearing socks. “Ow,” she hisses, grabbing her foot and hopping around.

If she had another two dollars, she’d just vend out another bag, but she only brought the necessary coin into the hall. Groaning, Holly drops to her knees and reaches her hand into the machine, bending her elbow and stretching her fingers in hopes of connecting with plastic. The machine scratches her arm. Rude. 

“Step back,” a girl says. 

Holly squints up. “It stole my cheetos.”

“Step back,” the girls repeats. 

Holly does. 

The girl is tall, a curly mop of hair brushing past her shoulders. Probably here for decathlon, too; the enemy.

Enemy or not, she studies the machine, lifts her shoe-clad foot, lines it up, and rams the side of her foot into the glass at the height of Holly’s trapped cheeto bag. 

It comes loose. 

“Oh my gosh, thank you!” Holly grins, bending down to grab her food from the vending machine. 

“No problem.” Holly pulls open the bag with a pop and offers it to the girl. “No, thanks.”

“Consider it a show of gratitude.”

“I don’t like cheetos.”

“What?” Holly’s mouth drops open. 

The girl shrugs, turns toward the machine and drops enough quarters through the coin slot to get … animal crackers. Weird choice. 

“Okay, well. Thanks.”

A nod. 

Holly bites a cheeto in half and walks back toward her room.

 

 

The girl _is_ here for decathlon. 

Holly spots her sitting at one of the long tables in the ballroom where all the teams are congregating. Her hair tied up, her eyes focused and posture slack. 

Half-listening as her team reviews -- she’s a freshman and an alternate, so, not a crucial member -- occasionally Holly’s gaze wanders over to the girl. 

She seems to be half-listening, too, sometimes mumbling answers, eyes drifting lazily from the girl standing at the head of her table, the table itself, and something to her left. 

 

 

As luck would have it, Holly stumbles upon the girl sitting with her back against the wall across from the same vending machine where they met yesterday. Holly is supposed to hit up Mary and April’s room before curfew to discuss the cute blonde boy from Seattle and _How to Get Away with Murder_ , but she sharply turns 90 degrees to look down at the girl. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“I’m Holly.”

“Okay.”

Holly sits down beside the girl. “Hi, Okay.”

The girl rolls her eyes. “Michelle.”

“Okay, Michelle.”

“If you claimed this hallway, I can wait for my roommate to stop making out with her boyfriend elsewhere.” 

Nose scrunch. “Ew, that sucks.”

“Yeah, but I can read anywhere. Harrison will blush furiously and stutter over his order for boys and girls to be on different floors if he sees Nadia and Seth swapping spit.” 

“That’s nice of you,” Holly says. 

Michelle shrugs. 

“So, how’d you guys do?”

Michelle looks at her. She has nice brown eyes. Really nice eyebrows. “Do?”

“Acadec. I saw you there.”

“Creepy.” A beat. “Quarterfinals.”

“Round of eight.”

“Not bad,” Michelle hums. 

“It’s just my first year, so I’m happy with it,” Holly says. When you don’t actually compete, it’s not your fault when someone gets a question about Russia wrong, but you do still get a certificate. A win-win situation. 

“Me too.”

“Really? That’s awesome.” Holly smiles. “Specialty?”

“All the humanities. I go to Midtown, and--”

“Oh, yeaaaaah,” Holly drawls, cutting her off. Michelle’s face was blank and remains blank, so if it bothers her, Holly can’t tell. “Super smart science peeps.” Michelle grimaces. Doesn’t like the word _peeps_ , probably. Fair. April says it reminds her of those marshmallow ducks. 

“Yeah. Our current arts guy is graduating this year. He’s not better than me. But Harrison is a softy. Doomed us to quarter finals.”

Holly nods. “Sucks.”

“What about you?” 

“Econ and social science. I prefer government stuff because--”

“ _Dude_ , be quiet,” someone says, rounding the corner. 

“I am!” comes the response. 

“We can’t test our theory if we get _caught_ ,” the first guy says, loud.

“What theory?” Michelle and Holly ask at the same time. Holly smiles at her, but Michelle barely glances in Holly’s direction. 

“Uh,” says the lanky boy with thick glasses.

“Oh, hey Michelle … and other girl,” says the shorter boy with the hat.

“N-nothing. No theory.” Scratch at the back of the neck.

Michelle narrows her eyes. 

“We think the allergy-free cleaning products contain rat poison!”

Holly feels her eyes go wide. “What?”

“We’re, uh, just kidding!” the shorter boy says, grabbing his friend’s forearm and shuffling away. They stumble over their feet. 

“Why’d you tell them?”

“I panicked!”

“We have no proof, Ned.”

“What about that rash on your--”

“ _Shut up_!”

They turn the corner. 

Michelle looks down, but not quick enough. Holly sees her eyes track the boys’ scuttling. Her mouth flat, but her eyes -- amused, almost wistful, maybe. Hopeful. Not because she wants the hotel to be using rat poison to wipe down the windows. Probably. 

“Which one?” Holly asks. Her phone vibrates and she turns it over, squinting at the screen. Text from Mary: _r u coming?_

“Probably the bathroom cleaner,” she says. 

Holly grins. “I meant which one do you have a crush on. The one wearing the hat?”

“Ned?” Forehead wrinkle.

“The one with the rash?” Holly asks, eyebrow raising. 

“Peter?” Michelle responds, hushed but over-the-top. Her face contorts like Holly just suggested the most vile thing Michelle has ever been asked to fathom. 

“It’s definitely Peter.” 

“I don’t have a crush on Peter.”

Holly hums. Her phone vibrates again: _episode is q-ed up. hurry!_ “If you say so.”

Michelle crosses her arms over her chest and huffs, glaring at Holly.

“I have to go.” _be there in 1_. “If Peter has any taste at all, he’ll realize how awesome you are.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not awesome.” Holly stands up, tucking her phone into her back pocket followed by a thin piece of auburn hair behind her ear. “I won’t tell anybody, not that I know anybody from Midtown to tell.”

Michelle’s glare manages to become actually, like, threatening. 

“Bye!” Holly laughs, power-walking down the hall. Just in case Michelle decides to murder her. She has a sneaking suspicion Michelle doesn’t need Viola Davis to get away with it. 

 

 

It takes a little over an hour to find Michelle on Facebook. 

Networking.

Academic decathlon kids are smart. They’re going places. 

Holly adds the two girls from California, the boy from Iowa, and the cute blonde guy from Seattle, too. Next year she resolves to talk to more people. 

 

 

Sophomore year Holly meets Deana. Deana has blonde hair and blue eyes and a southern twang that’s more Tennessee than Texas. 

Deana kisses her under the bleachers at a football game. 

The decathlon team doesn’t make it past regionals. 

It’s okay, though, because Holly has a girlfriend who smiles at her and makes her entire body feel like a light being turned on, happy and bright. 

Cliche. 

 

 

Holly spots Michelle in the hotel lobby while Mrs. Favia checks them in. Her T-shirt is rumpled, and she shuffles through the notecards in her hands. Her team stands in small groups around her. She lifts her head and speaks in sporadic intervals. 

Holly distracts herself with the latest meme Georgia keeps showing her and a text to Deana letting her know they arrived in Denver, safe and sound. When she looks up, Michelle leans against a wall by the elevators, arms crossed. But someone is speaking to her -- boy, broad, hand on the back of his neck, running through his hair.

“You and me, right?” April asks, nudging Holly with her elbow. 

“Roomies,” she agrees. 

Holly, April, Mary and Georgia always rotate. Georgia’s the best at geometry by a mile and has great taste in music, but she likes to sleep early. Mary will end up in their room Saturday night. April links her arm through Holly’s, key from Mrs. Favia, room 417. 

They wheel their suitcases through the packed lobby. 

Michelle’s still by the elevators with the boy. Holly smiles her way, but Michelle is focused, flipping through a set of green flashcards. 

“Equations or inequalities with no solutions?” she asks.

“Inconsistent.”

“The Prokaryote contains how many of the major domains?”

“Two.”

“Mammalian hearing is derived--”

“Fish lateral line,” he interrupts. Grin growing. 

“Four types of monopolies?”

“Geographical, governmental, natural, and technological.”

“Why is a PPF--”

“Bonus points for alpha order?” the boy asks.

Michelle’s mouth tilts up. She bites at her bottom lip to stop it. “This is how the world ends / Not with a bang, but a whimper.”

“That’s not fair.” He frowns, leaning forward on his toes, then back. 

Michelle hums, eyebrow arching. The flashcards in her hands curve up as she bends them toward her body. 

“ _Ash Wednesday?_ ”

“ _The Hollow Men_ , but you did name an Eliot poem that wasn’t _The Waste Land_. Almost impressive.”

The boys smiles. Leans forward again. “I got all mine right, didn’t I?”

“I said _almost_ , nerd.”

He’s close to her now, heels off the ground. If anybody nudged him, he’d probably catch himself on the wall Michelle leans against, hands on either side of her head. Both of their eyes are wide. The elevator dings, and he falls back. Throat cleared. “That is the nicest thing you’ve ever--”

Holly steps into the elevator.

 

 

They face Midtown in the semifinals.

Holly focuses on remembering the laws of the 12 tables, how many praetors were elected yearly -- eight -- and how many censors were elected every five years -- two. She learns the boy Michelle was quizzing earlier is Peter. The name is common and doesn’t fire between the synapses in Holly’s brain. She also learns he knows his stuff, beating her to three econ questions she knew and one she didn’t.

Midtown wins. Holly claps, smiles. She’s a good loser. 

Michelle smiles, too, a small, tight thing. Her team envelops her in a hug. Chanting, cheering, lots of fistpumping. 

When the rush of adrenaline fades, Holly watches hat boy -- Ned, the competition reminds her -- sans hat, speak with his hands. Michelle laughs, and Peter does, too, eyes crinkling around the corners. 

Peter says something, and Michelle almost grins, chin tucked to her chest. She reaches out to push at Peter’s shoulder, but he doesn’t budge. He turns to Ned, and Michelle’s eyes switch between them until Peter looks at her. She looks at Ned. She says something. Ned snorts. Loud. Holly can hear them from across the aisle of chairs set up for the audience. Peter’s mouth flattens, gazing at Michelle, but she doesn’t look back. 

There’s something magnetic about the two of them. Except they can’t get too close without one of them flipping the charge, repelling, pushing away. 

 

 

Their team sits in the crowd and watches the finals. 

Midtown wins. 

Holly claps so hard the palms of her hands sting. 

The celebration is the same as yesterday: group hug, chanting, cheering. Peter and Michelle hover around each other, but they don’t get too close. When they take a picture with the trophy, Michelle pulls Ned by the arm so he ends up between her and Peter. 

Holly intercepts Michelle when she gets offstage. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Michelle squints. “Holly?”

“Aw, you remembered me.”

“You update Facebook a lot.”

“I do.” Holly nods. “Congratulations. That was like … super impressive.” 

“Thanks.” 

“I know you probably have big plans, but if you want, we could catch up.”

“Catch up?”

“Since we lost yesterday, I’ve been networking. I can point you in the direction of the girl who got in early decision to Stanford, the guy who did a summer internship with Carnegie Mellon’s computer science program, _and_ the girl who plans on attending Julliard.” Holly wants to network with the girl who just coached her team to their second win in as many years. She’s going places. Her entire team is, probably. 

“Juilliard?” Interest sparks in Michelle’s eyes. 

“Weird, right?” Holly grins.

Michelle agrees. 

 

 

Holly expunges all the information she’s gathered this weekend within the first hour of Michelle knocking on her door. 

“So,” she says, wiping her cheeto-dusted fingers against her shorts. “Whatever happened to that kid you had a crush on?”

Michelle blanks. “I don’t have crushes.”

“Yeah, you do.” Holly pokes at Michelle’s leg with her big toe. Michelle shifts against the headboard and kicks at Holly. Holly, laying on her stomach, shuts her laptop before rolling onto her back. She props herself on her elbows and looks at Michelle. Very serious. “Lanky rash boy.”

“No idea.” Michelle shrugs. 

“And now Peter.”

Frown. “Gross.”

“True.” Holly grabs her bag of cheetos -- big and stolen from the top shelf of her mom’s top cabinet back home. “It’s obvious to anyone within like, 100 feet of the both of you at any given time.”

Long pause. Michelle’s mouth thinning, fingers pulling on the string of her hoodie. “Is it really obvious?”

“Yeah,” Holly says, immediate, but Michelle looks almost terrified, so she amends, “I don’t think he minds.”

“Because he’s too stupid to realize.”

“Wait.” Holly scrambles up, a cheeto falls out of the bag and onto the floor. She leans over the bed, stretches to grab and eat it. Michelle wrinkles her nose. Fair. It is pretty gross. But -- hey -- they vacuum daily. “What do you mean?”

“There’s no way he knows. If he did, he’d politely stop being friends with me for my benefit.” Twist of mouth. “And Gwen’s.”

“Who the fuck is Gwen?”

“His girlfriend.”

Grimace. “Sorry.” 

Michelle pulls the string of her sweatshirt so the knot of the right side is caught by the hood. “I should stop being friends with him.”

“Maybe.”

“We have another year of decathlon. It’d be too weird to cut him out of my life.”

Holly hums. 

“He’s clingy. Would ask a lot of questions.”

“Sounds like you don’t want to stop being friends with him.”

“If I stop being friends with him, I probably have to stop being friends with Ned,” she continues. “They’re a package deal.”

“Then don’t stop being friends with him.” 

Michelle fixes the sweatshirt, reaching behind her to unbunch the hood as she evens out the string. Her face almost passive but for a knot of frustration between her brows. “This is stupid. Feelings are below my paygrade.”

Holly laughs. “Yeah, I believe that.”

 

 

Holly and Michelle exchange numbers, and Michelle keys herself in Holly’s phone as MJ. 

Very cool. 

Holly always texts first, but she doesn’t mind. _texas is hell_.

_That sounds right._

_hot as hell too_

_NYC is humid._

And:

_snails can sleep for 3 yrs_

_College apps haven’t let me sleep in 3 days._

_relatable!!!_

And:

 _deana and i broke up_

_That sucks. Sorry._

_she dumped me but it was more mutual than that. really weird to love someone and then to feel like u’d rather help ur mom weed the garden than watch them play the last of us._

_Still sucks. But I’m glad you’re ok._

 

 

Holly started looking for reasons to text MJ. She was the person Holly wanted to tell when she got into Rice. When anxiety about the future rattled in her stomach and she scrolled through Facebook, she found herself looking at Michelle’s pictures, reading all the comments on her posts -- never many. Always Ned and Peter 

She dreams about MJ kissing her in her yellow decathlon blazer and Googles emotional infidelity. 

Deana dumps her over winter break. “Irreconcilable differences,” she says with a sad smile. Tears well behind her eyes. 

They both cry a little bit and hug each other on Holly’s porch, so tightly it makes them stumble around and laugh. 

_peter still sad about gwen?_

_I don’t think so. They’re cool._

_u still sad about peter?_

_Never was._ Followed by: _Fuck off._

 

 

Holly isn’t captain, but she works with Georgia to make sure everybody is prepared for each competition. 

It’s their senior year, and she wants to make nationals. Win a national title. 

She doesn’t see Michelle in the lobby this year, but she texts her her room number.

 _Focus tonight._

_it’d distract me too_

_I meant you need to focus. I’m prepared._

_hate u 🖕🏻_

 

 

She passes by the hotel pool on her way to the lobby. 

Mary accidentally used all of their towels tonight. Holly asked, but Mary insisted she really didn’t want to know, between the shower, and the shaving, and the lotions, and the masks. Holly will peer pressure her for details later, if it strikes her fancy. 

She pauses to look inside when she hears a shriek. A group of students are at the pool, and it’s almost 10. That can’t be allowed. Her eyes drift over the area once, and then back, and she would just leave to request her towels, except she spots MJ sitting on a pool chair, legs crossed like a pretzel, looking down at a book in her lap. 

Focus, huh? 

MJ looks up, not at her, but at the pool. Her eyes zero in, and she speaks. 

Holly watches the offenders, Peter and Ned -- _of course_ \-- lean against the edge of the pool. Peter nods empathetically before pulling himself out of the water. He flicks some water droplets onto Michelle. She frowns, whacking at his arm, but lets him sit on the lounger next to hers. 

They talk. Even bathed in the blue pool lights, Holly thinks Peter flushes. Hand through his hair. MJ’s mouth twitches between a half-smile and harmless scowl. Holly watches her scoot to the end of her chair to show Peter something in her book. He pries it from her hands, tosses it beside him. Michelle frowns, but when Peter grabs her hands her face flickers with something else. He stands, makes a show about trying to pull her up. 

She glares. But she goes. Easy. 

She walks into the shallow end of the pool until the water laps at her shorts. Shoving at Peter’s shoulders, he crouches down so Michelle can climb onto his back. 

Heart clench. 

Holly watches as Peter gives MJ a piggyback ride around the pool. Halfway through the first lap, Ned starts splashing at her and she scrunches up her face. Very cute. Somebody else joins in, and Michelle kicks at them terribly until Ned grabs at her leg, pulling her away from Peter and into the water. 

MJ laughs. 

Heart ache. 

 

 

Midtown wins. 

Michelle texts: _Celebratory condolences in your room?_

Holly responds: _8?_

 _See you then._

 

 

Michelle shows up in basketball shorts and a thick, cable knit sweater. Her curls unruly, her mouth smart, her eyes open. 

They share a pack of starburst, discuss decathlon questions until they run out of them. A yellow starburst sticks to Holly’s back teeth. 

“I really am sorry about Deana,” MJ says. 

Holly shrugs. “I wasn’t in love with her anymore.”

“Yeah. Right.” Michelle smooths out an orange wrapper. “In my experience, getting broken up with still hurts.”

“Darryl?” Holly asks. 

“It’s whatever.” Pile of wrappers on the comforter: pink, orange, orange, red. 

“Have you been with anybody since?” Holly thinks about Peter, and the pool, and Michelle laughing. 

“No.”

“Me either.”

MJ catches her gaze, heavy. 

Holly can’t help it. She thought about MJ when Texas turned cold, when spring blew in, when she was asleep, when a movie bored her. She thought about the low crackle of Michelle’s voice, and the knobs of her knees, and the curve of her collarbone. Holly knows the familiar flutter in her stomach whenever a notification from MJ would ping on her phone. 

Holly leans closer, too much weight on her wrist. 

Michelle kisses her, hesitant. 

Warm. Soft. Starburst. Wonderful.

Holly threads her hand in MJ’s curls, and MJ hums into her mouth, hand trailing down Holly’s arm. Goosebumps. 

The sex is good. Fumbling. Awkward bouts of awkward laughter. Little bites against MJ’s collarbone and purposeful presses of MJ’s thumb along Holly’s hipbone. 

MJ pulls the covers over her body after, up to her chin. She folds her hands on top of them. “I think Peter likes me.”

“Oh.” He does. “That’s good, right?”

“Theoretically.”

Holly shifts onto her side and props her head in her hand, looking down at Michelle. “Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”

“He’s liked me for maybe two months. That’s nothing. Fleeting.”

“Friendship-ruining?”

MJ’s mouth thins. She stares at the ceiling. “I’m only saying this because of the sugar and the sex-induced endorphins.”

“Of course.” Holly smiles. She can’t help it.

“I’ve liked him for four years. And he just-- he just. It’s not fair. I should make him wait four years.”

“Then don’t you make yourself wait four more years, too?”

“He won’t like me if he has to wait four years.”

“Maybe,” Holly says. “You still like him after four years.”

Michelle’s eyes cut to Holly, and she exhales. “I’m stressing the sugar and sex thing here, but Peter is the best person I’ve ever known. He’s a _good_ person. My traitorous brain won’t let me stop liking him.” Self-deprecating laugh. “Believe me. I’ve tried.”

Holly flops down. She blinks at the popcorn ceiling. Her breathing slows. “I think you should tell him.”

“About four years of stupid pining?”

“About liking him. I’d leave out the four years part. That’s embarrassing.”

MJ groans. 

“It might ruin your friendship. He might be stupid and realize you’re too annoying to deal with after two months.”

“Helpful.” A flick to Holly’s bare shoulder. 

“But you’ve felt this way for a teen-soap-opera length of time. Maybe letting yourself try is the only way to make it go away.”

Silence. 

The room feels dark. Liminal space. 

Anxiety starts to crawl all over Holly’s skin. “Maybe he didn’t--”

“I’m done talking about this.”

“Sugar crash.”

“Exactly.”

MJ leaves, hands folded into the sleeves of her sweater, hair a rat’s nest. 

“Congrats again,” Holly says, leaning against the jamb. She sent Mary a text saying it was safe to come back a minute ago. 

“Thanks. You did well.”

“Tried my best.”

“I’ll text you,” MJ says, stepping backward out of the room. 

“No, _I’ll_ text you.”

“I’ll reply.”

“I know.”

Holly shuts the door, pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, and blinks back tears. 

Can’t help it.

Heart break.


End file.
